Translated by Edward FitzGerald (First Edition, 1859) — 50 Selected Quatrains
I
Wake! For the Sun, who scatter'd into flight
The Stars before him from the Field of Night,
Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes
The Sultán's Turret with a Shaft of Light.
II
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,
"Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
"Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry."
III
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted—"Open then the Door!
"You know how little while we have to stay,
"And, once departed, may return no more."
V
Iram indeed is gone with all his Rose,
And Jamshýd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;
But still the vine her ancient Ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.
VII
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly—and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.
VIII
Whether at Naishápúr or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.
IX
Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first Summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshýd and Kaikobád away.
XI
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultán is forgot—
And Peace to Mahmúd on his golden Throne!
XII
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!
XIII
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!
XV
And those who husbanded the Golden grain,
And those who flung it to the winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.
XVI
The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon
Turns Ashes—or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,
Lighting a little hour or two—is gone.
XVII
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Portals are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultán after Sultán with his Pomp
Abode his destined Hour, and went his way.
XVIII
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshýd gloried and drank deep;
And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.
XXI
Oh, threaten'd drear Desert underneath a vast profound,
Where turn the Hands of Night and Day like grinding-stones!
Each grain a separate being, each spinning its own fate,
And we the phantom shadows that the mills cast out!
XXIII
And we, that now make merry in the Room
They left, and Summer dresses in new bloom
Ourselves must we beneath the Summer grass,
Wreathe our own brows with Summer's fading flowers.
XXIV
Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into the Dust descend;
Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie
Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!
XXV
Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare,
And those that after some TO-MORROW stare,
A Muezzín from the Tower of Darkness cries
"Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There."
XXVI
Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd
Of the Two Worlds so wisely—they are thrust
Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn
Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust.
XXVII
When You and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh, but the long long while the World shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As the Sea's self should heed a pebble-cast.
XXVIII
'Tis but a moment—since the soil has been
The very heart's-blood of some one who then
Set face toward the clay of his own hearth,
And yearn'd to walk with friends in his own door.
XXIX
Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!
XXX
What, without asking, hither hurried Whence?
And, without asking, Whither hurried hence!
Oh, many a Cup of this forbidden Wine
Must drown the memory of that insolence!
XXXI
Up from Earth's Centre through the Seventh Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate,
And many Knots unravel'd by the Road;
But not the Master-knot of Human Fate.
XXXII
There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see:
Some little talk awhile of ME and THEE
There seemed—and then no more of THEE and ME.
XXXIII
Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
"Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And—"A blind Understanding!" Heav'n replied.
XXXIV
Then to this earthen Bowl I did assign
The doleful portion of a life whose prime
Should pass in trifling, and whose second age
Should drop at last, like all that went before.
XXXV
Then fill a second, dearest Friend, to-night!
Why here's the earliest rose of summer-tide
Opening its crimson beauty to the light—
And there the earliest nightingale, beside!
XXXVI
For in the market-place, one drowsy morning,
I saw a Potter thumping his wet Clay:
And with its all-obliterated Tongue
It murmured—"Gently, Brother, gently, pray!"
XXXVII
Ah, fill the Cup:—what boots it to repeat
How Time is slipping underneath our Feet:
Unborn TO-MORROW and dead YESTERDAY,
Why fret about them if TO-DAY be sweet!
XXXVIII
One Moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One Moment, of the Well of Life to taste—
The Stars are setting and the Caravan
Starts for the Dawn of Nothing—Oh, make haste!
XL
So when at last the Angel of the drink
Of Darkness finds you by the river-brink,
And, proffering his Cup, invites your Soul
Forth to your Lips to quaff it—think not to shrink.
XLI
If but some Vessel in which to forget,
Some tavern of the soul's brief holiday,
Some wine to lift the burden from the heart—
'Twere well, 'twere well, 'twere very well, I say.
XLII
And if the Wine you drink, the Lip you press,
End in the Nothing all Things end in—Yes—
Then fancy while Thou art, Thou art but what
Thou shalt be—Nothing—Thou shalt not be less.
XLIII
When You and I, dissolved, shall make one Soul,
And each shall be content to lose the whole—
Then we shall be as one, and so content—
Not we, but ONE—of neither name nor sign.
XLIV
The Grape that can with Logic absolute
The Two-and-Seventy jarring Sects confute:
The subtle Alchemyst that in a Trice
Life's leaden Metal into Gold transmute.
XLV
But if in vain down on the stubborn floor
Of Earth we waste our unavailing store,
Why then, Be glad, for that the Day is born
In which another store shall waste no more.
XLVI
And fear not lest Existence closing your
Account, should lose, or know the type no more;
The new Soul, the new Wine, the new Life—
New vintage to the Vintage evermore.
XLVII
And when like her, oh Sáki, you shall pass
Among the Guests Star-scatter'd on the Grass,
And in your joyous errand reach the spot
Where all the Guests, like you, have long been dust.
XLVIII
A moment's halt—a momentary taste
Of BEING from the Well of Life—'tis past,
And we are marching on to Nothingness—
So drink, drink deep—'twill not forever last!
XLIX
Would you that spangle of Existence spend
About THE SECRET—quick about it, Friend!
A Hair perhaps divides the False and True—
And upon that thin Hair, the World may end!
L
But O, what shall the dwellers in the Dust
Do, when the Vine has stripped the Garden bare?
They that have been the beautiful, the brave,
What shall they do, when all the world is air?
Text from Edward FitzGerald's first edition (1859), public domain. Project Gutenberg eBook #246.